Betrayal and Trust
by Leia
Summary: [Complete] Gohan invites Piccolo to come to his sixth birthday party. That evening, Piccolo is forced to discover the importance of commitment, loyalty, family, and love ...


Disclaimer: NO! I don't own DB/Z/GT .... and I never will! My brilliant plan has been thwarted! I had planned to marry into the Toriyama family - when I go to Japan for a year (a year and a half from now) I was going to somehow meet up with them, then eventually marry one of his sons. But he only has daughters!!!! NOOOOO!!!!!! *falls down, twitching* 

A/N: I'm really popping out the ideas, aren't I! Too bad my other in-progress stories aren't going so well, hn? 

Author's notes are at the end. 

By the way, this fic is dedicated to Mellie, a former member of fanfiction.net, and the author of "Rain and Tears" -- if you haven't read it, it's a Piccolo/Gohan story. (Non-romance). Due to health reasons, Mellie was forced to close her account - and so, to help make her feel better (^_^) I've dedicated this story to her. Your advice has been great, Mel! I hope you feel better as quickly as you can. 

A secondary dedication goes to all Piccolo fans -- those who've reviewed my fics regularly, like Velasa, Onyx, Dark Dragon, demon lover, Piccolo0714, Kittioto, and others. A big hug of thanks to you guys, too!   
  


Betrayal and Trust

Green, sloped ears twitched slightly as certain sounds became audible to them — quiet breathing, leaves crunching underfoot, and nonchalant whistling . . . all added up to the imminent arrival of a particular young demi-Saiyajin.  With one hand poised under the cascading waterfall where he loved to meditate, Piccolo smiled slightly before bending down to drink.

"Mister Piccolo!" Son Gohan's voice floated up to him, and the boy flew to the waterfall.  The bowl cut his mother had given him was beginning to grow out, finally, and his raven-black hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail.  He wore a pair of overalls and a short-sleeved shirt, and though Piccolo winced a little, he was thankful that the boy's mother had stopped trying to dress him in that childish surcoat and hat.

"Gohan, what have I told you about whistling?" Piccolo snapped, but it was more of a test of his own authority than a true reprimand.  As expected, Gohan didn't even blink, and his brilliant smile never faltered . . . and though he wasn't sure why, Piccolo felt glad he couldn't break the boy's spirit.

"I-know-I-know-I-won't-whistle-again-but-I-gotta'-tell-you-something-and-it's-really-really-cool!" Gohan blurted this statement all in one tremendous breath, eyes shining, and he shoved something in Piccolo's hand.  "Here, look!"

Piccolo glanced at the folded sheet of white paper, only slightly crumpled, which rested in his palm.  _Please come to my birthday part_y, it read, in block capitals drawn with red crayon.  Pictures of yellow balloons festooned the upper corners, and blue streamers and multicoloured confetti danced in and about the letters.  It was obvious Gohan had spent a great deal of time on this.

Piccolo raised a muscled brow ridge and opened the handmade card, where a brightly-crayoned Gohan had his arms around a smiling Piccolo's neck.  Both stood beside a giant cake.  Piccolo noted that Gohan's colouring and printing were quite neat for a boy his age, though his drawing style was childish enough that even Piccolo admitted it was cute.  His mouth quirked.

"So?" Gohan grabbed Piccolo's wrists and put on his best "pleading face," with his eyes wide and lower lip protruding.  "Will you come, will you come?"

The Namekusejin stared at the paper for a few more seconds, then looked at Gohan.  "Kid, I thought your birthday was over six months ago."

"Yeah, but we were on Namekusei," Gohan affirmed, nodding eagerly.  "I couldn't have a party then!  Can you imagine Furiza and Vegeta-san not fighting so we could eat some cake?"

"Hn," Piccolo snorted.  "So why didn't you have one when we got back?"

For the first time that day, the light disappeared from Gohan's bright eyes, and his smile faded.  "Well, we were waiting for Daddy to come home, but . . . Mom says he might not be back for a long time, and she says we shouldn't wait anymore."

Inwardly, Piccolo cursed himself for inadvertently bringing up the subject of Son Goku, who was off training somewhere and didn't want to come back just yet.  That statement, probably uttered cheerfully and without malice by Son, was nonetheless a knife in his family's happiness, and gave Piccolo a whole new reason to be angry at his former arch-rival.  _If I were Gohan's father,_ Piccolo thought bitterly, _ I wouldn't abandon him like that.  And much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn't leave the boy's mother, either.  They don't deserve this._

"I'm sorry, Gohan," Piccolo let his tone soften, and he rested his hand on the boy's head, black spikes of hair poking between his fingers.  "He'll be back someday — he said he would."

  


Gohan nodded again, but there was an air of resigned obedience about the gesture that belied its sincerity.  He blinked rapidly, but Piccolo still caught the telltale sheen in his eyes.  "It's okay, Mister Piccolo.  I know Daddy's coming back . . . Mom's the one who really gets sad all the time."

Piccolo lowered his hand and wiped a threatening tear from the corner of Gohan's eye with the tip of his finger.  Gohan smiled weakly, then squeezed his eyes shut to block off any tears, and after a few seconds was able to speak clearly.  "So that's why you gotta' come," Gohan asserted, "'Cause I think Kuririn has a girlfriend 'cause he's not ever home, and Daddy's away, so if you don't come it'll just be me, Mom, and Gram'pa."

Piccolo frowned, and he folded the invitation neatly, tucking it in his belt.  "All right, I'll be there."

"Okay!" Gohan grinned broadly, and without warning, he flung his arms around Piccolo's waist and hugged him enthusiastically.  "Thank you, Mister Piccolo!  You don't know how much this means to me!"

As with every time Gohan hugged him, Piccolo felt a rush of affection run through him, coupled with a sense of pride that this boy, such a powerful warrior, had chosen _him_ as his best friend.  As usual, though, Piccolo couldn't stay in Gohan's embrace for long without getting uncomfortable.  

"All right, all right, that's enough," he grunted, pulling away.  "If you're going to try to hug me the whole night, I might just stay here."

Gohan laughed heartily, knowing the emptiness of the threat, and he gave Piccolo one last squeeze before releasing him.  "The party's at my house at six o'clock, okay, Mister Piccolo?"

Piccolo nodded briefly, and he cocked his head a little.  "I don't have to bring a present, do I?"

"You _are_ a present," Gohan flashed Piccolo the widest smile the Namekusejin had ever seen, and a warm feeling spread through him.  "Just be there.  That's the best present you could ever give me."

"It's a deal, then," Piccolo's mouth curved up in a tiny smile, and he chucked Gohan under the chin.  "See ya' later, kid."

"'Bye, Mister Piccolo!" Gohan called over his shoulder, waving frantically as he ran, preparing for takeoff.  Even when he smacked straight into a tree, the boy just lay on his back, giggling hysterically, before jumping into the air and flying away. Piccolo watched him go, shaking his head.

"Crazy kid," Piccolo muttered, but he smirked.  It was funny how, even after all he had seen and experienced, Gohan was still such an innocent little boy.  That, along with the child's unfailing trust, was what drew Piccolo to him . . . the fact that this boy possessed what Piccolo had lost before he was even born.  That was why Piccolo swore to watch over the boy — he didn't want Gohan's innocence to be stripped away from him as Piccolo's had been.  Piccolo was not only the protector of Gohan's life — he was also the guardian of his soul.

_There's no way I'm gonna' miss that kid's birthday party,_ Piccolo thought viciously, _His own father can't even be there . . . I'm not going to leave him alone.  Like it or not, he needs me right now — at least until Son gets back._

Rising to the air high above the forest, Piccolo dropped into his signature fighting stance and powered up, emitting a burst of light bright enough to rival the sun.  Since it was his custom to train during the night and meditate when it was light, Piccolo decided to get in as much sparring as he could before the party . . . he figured he would need to get his anger out _now_, just in case Gohan's mother decided to make things difficult for him. 

Gritting his fangs and letting out a low, primal growl, Piccolo clenched his fists and concentrated his energy in two places, performing his split-form technique.  With Son out in space somewhere, Vegeta holed up in his Gravity Room, and Gohan at home studying, the only person up to his calibre with whom Piccolo could train was, well, himself.  It made things more difficult since his power was halved, but it was the best replacement for an actual sparring partner.

  


"Ready to go?" Piccolo asked his double, who nodded curtly in response.  Raising their energies, the twin Piccolos faced each other and prepared to fight. . . .

******

"I've never seen my little baby so happy," Son ChiChi murmured to herself, watching as her six-year-old scamper around the house, getting ready for the party that night.  "He's so excited that Piccolo will be coming . . ." the dark-haired woman frowned, not wanting to admit her fears aloud in case Gohan might hear.

_But what makes him so certain that Piccolo will come? _ she thought her doubts instead.  _Gohan-chan's sure that he will show up . . . but I'm not.  Changed or not, that Piccolo is still a ruthless killer.  I wouldn't even have let Gohan-chan invite him if I didn't know he wants him to come so badly . . ._

ChiChi glanced over at Gohan, who was hovering above the kitchen table, affixing a bunch of balloons to the ceiling lamp.  _Well, I know one thing,_ ChiChi balled her hands into fists, not realizing her body was suddenly surrounded by a pulsing, blue energy aura.  _If Piccolo breaks my Gohan-chan's heart today, I don't care how powerful he is.  Demon King or no Demon King, I'll find a way to make him pay!_

Unaware of his mother's churning thoughts, Gohan skipped around the kitchen, humming a little song he had made up himself, about Mister Piccolo.  "_Piccolo-san, dai, dai,_" he sang quietly, "_Piccolo-san, dai, dai_," (he giggled a little, picturing Piccolo's face if he ever caught him singing that song) "_Piccolo-san, dai, dai, dai, dai, daaaaaaaai . . . suki!_" he finished triumphantly, waving a streamer for emphasis.  He didn't see the pained look on ChiChi's face.

"This is gonna' be the best birthday party I've ever had," Gohan declared decisively, "With Mister Piccolo here, it'll be like Daddy never left!"

Even though he felt vaguely disloyal, at the moment Gohan felt as though Piccolo was more of a father than his actual one.  Piccolo didn't leave for month after month to train . . . Piccolo was there all the time, whenever Gohan needed him.  Gohan still loved his father, oh yes, but the place Piccolo held in his heart was growing steadily larger.  Resuming his cheerful song, Gohan went up to his room to find the party hats.

The cone-shaped hats, brightly coloured, were made from construction paper and decorated with stickers and hand-drawn designs.  Gohan had laboured over those for a good two hours, decorating each hat according to the wearer.  His mother's was covered in pictures of hearts, flowers, and little drawings of Gohan, Goku, and Gyuu-mao.  Gohan had been a little stumped with what to draw on his grandfather's hat, so it was covered with  a multicoloured, abstract design.  His own hat had caricatures of Piccolo, ChiChi, Goku, Gyuu-mao, Kuririn, and Bulma.

Piccolo's hat had taken the longest, for on it Gohan had drawn an elaborate picture of a large cliff overlooking a beautiful sunset.  Standing on the cliff were Piccolo and Gohan, Gohan perched on Piccolo's broad shoulders.  Gohan was extremely proud of this one, and he wondered what Piccolo's face would be like when he saw it.  He'd probably get embarrassed, Gohan reasoned, but the demi-Saiyajin knew his _sensei_ would secretly like it.  He'd never say so out loud, of course, but Gohan could picture the look on his face — a frown that would slowly shift into a smirk, then the tiniest hint of a real smile.

His mother had been uncertain as to whether or not Piccolo would actually _wear_ the hat, but Gohan was adamant.  He knew that, even though he might grumble for a little while, Piccolo always did whatever Gohan asked him to do.  That was one of the reasons Gohan liked Piccolo so much.

Gohan got the giggles, trying to imagine what Piccolo would look like with the hat on . . . he'd look pretty darn funny, but Gohan wouldn't laugh at him.  That would be just mean, and Gohan didn't want to be mean.  _Especially_ not to Piccolo, who had trained him and taken care of him and died for him and saved him lots of times.

  


He hooked the hats over his arm by their elastic chin-straps, and Gohan flew downstairs, back to the kitchen.  His mother was at the counter, mixing the ingredients for a Saiyajin-sized cake, and Gohan waved happily to her as he set the hats on their designated place mats.  Each place mat had its own nametag, made special by Gohan (of course), the names drawn in pen with Gohan's best calligraphy.

"You're really getting into this, aren't you," Mom remarked from across the room, as Gohan knelt on one of the chairs, carefully arranging the nametag in the centre of the place mat.

"Yup," Gohan called, finishing his decorating and sitting back with a sigh of satisfaction.  He closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, his fingers laced behind his head.  "This is gonna' be a great party, Mom . . . even if it is late.  Daddy'll be sad he missed it."

"Yes, he will," Mom said softly, and Gohan cracked one eye open, looking at her.  She had one hand poised above the mixing bowl, holding a wooden spoon loosely in her fingers, and she was looking out the window wistfully.  Gohan jumped off the chair and walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her legs.  

"It's okay, Mommy," he assured her, "Daddy will come back soon.  I know he will."

Mom sniffled a little, then she reached down and scooped Gohan up into her arms, hugging him tightly.  "I love you, Gohan-chan . . . I'm sorry you have to be such a big boy when your Daddy's away . . . you need him to take care of you.  Mommy can't do it all the time."

Gohan frowned, and he placed his hands on either side of Mom's face.  "Mister Piccolo takes care of me, Mom,"  he pointed out.  "And I bet if I asked him, he'd take care of you, too."

Mom snorted, sounding a lot like Piccolo.  "Right, Gohan-chan.  Like that would happen."

"He would if I asked him to," Gohan repeated stubbornly, jutting out his chin like his father did whenever he wanted to prove a point.  "Just until Dad gets back.  Mister Piccolo's not a bad guy."

"I know, sweetie," Mom sighed, and she set Gohan back down on the floor.  "But all in all, I think I prefer your Daddy."

"Well, he's not here, is he," Gohan muttered, but fortunately it was too quiet for Mom to hear.  _Daddy, why do you hurt Mom by staying away? _ he thought, though he knew he didn't mean it that viciously.  Everyone was suffering because of his father's absence.

_Which is why I'm glad Mister Piccolo is coming,_ Gohan smiled to himself as he went upstairs to change clothes.  His mother had made him a suit specially for the occasion — a dark blue jacket, pants, and tie, with a white shirt underneath. _He'll help all of us forget that Daddy's away, even if he just sits there and frowns the whole time._

"I can't wait!" Gohan squealed, feeling a little silly that he was so excited, but not really caring.  "I'm sure Mister Piccolo will have fun eventually. . . . I wonder if I can get him to eat some cake?"

******

"Gohan-chan . . ."

"He's coming, Mom, just wait," Gohan insisted, looking at the empty chair beside him, with the untouched party hat and nametag.  The small boy was huddled in his own chair, arms crossed, trying bravely to keep from crying as thousands of reasons for Piccolo's absence swirled around in his head.  "Just wait a few more minutes."

Mom shook her head, her eyes sad and her mouth pursed in a thin line.  "Gohan-chan, your food will be cold soon if we don't eat it."

"Just _wait_, I said!  He said he'd be here, so he'll be here!" Gohan glared at his mother, feeling guilty when she flinched and glanced away.  "Ten minutes, okay?"

  


Mom glanced at the clock — six thirty p.m. — and sighed.  "All right, sweetheart, but just ten minutes.  After that, we'll have to eat or the food won't be any good."

"Yes, Mom . . . but he'll be here."

******

"Gohan-chan, it's been fifteen minutes now.  We _have_ to serve the food," Mom reached across the table and clasped Gohan's hand in hers, squeezing his fingers gently.

"Okay, Mom," this time Gohan couldn't repress a sniffle as his mother rose from the table and walked to the counter, where she brought the various dishes, now cooled, to those present.  _Why aren't you here, Mister Piccolo? _ Gohan demanded silently, his eyes filling with tears, _You promised me!  You never break your promises!_

Mom set a serving of _raamen_ and _yasaiitame_ with rice — Gohan's favourites — in front of him, but he didn't want to eat them.  However, since his mother had spent almost the entire day cooking, Gohan picked up his utensils and began picking away half-heartedly at his meal, forcing a weak smile.  "This is really good, Mom," he complimented her, despite the fact that the _raamen_ tasted funny now that it was cold.

"Thank you, Gohan-chan," Mom replied, her voice quiet and strained.  She exchanged glances with Gram'pa, who sighed heavily.

Bite after bite, Gohan forced himself to chew and swallow until he had finished his helpings of dinner, but once that was over he buried his face in his small hands, trying to stop his shoulders from shaking.  _Why, Mister Piccolo . . . why?  You're my best friend . . . how could you do this to me?_

******

Tears slid down Gohan's cheeks like raindrops on a windowpane, and he sniffed loudly, wishing he could be brave.  "Gohan-chan?" Mom piped up timidly.   She had finished clearing the table a few minutes before.  "Do you want your cake now?"

Miserably, Gohan nodded, then he registered the amount of pain in his mother's voice on his behalf, and he straightened.  It was his birthday, and Mom had tried so hard to make it a good one for him . . . just because Mister Piccolo wasn't there, didn't mean that Gohan had to be sad the whole night.  He looked at Mom, who had those lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth that showed how upset she was, and Gohan swallowed hard.

"That really was good supper, Mom," Gohan squeezed out another smile and injected as much sincerity into his tone as he could bear, and was gratified to see a relieved look pass over his mother's features.  "Thanks.  I'll help you do the dishes when you're done."

"Nonsense, dear," Mom seemed a little more at ease already as she put a large piece of cake on his place mat.  "It's still your birthday, remember?  You don't do chores on your birthday."

When they were all eating their cake, Gohan waited until no one was watching before setting Piccolo's name tag face down on the table.  He also saw his mother pretend not to notice when he didn't make a wish before blowing out the candles . . .

******

  


The sky had grown completely dark, stars poking through the gloom, when Mom and Gram'pa brought out their gifts for him.  The Son family wasn't particularly wealthy, but Gohan knew Mom always saved up money each year to get him presents for his birthday.  This year, he received a full set of encyclopedias, drawing paper and pencils (since Mom had noticed him doodling in the margins of his algebra textbook), a fishing rod . . . and surprisingly, a training gi that was a miniature of his father's.

While otherwise these gifts would have delighted him — even the encyclopedias, which Gohan found fascinating — Gohan had to manufacture enough enthusiasm so as not to make his family feel bad.  "Thanks Mom, thanks Gram'pa," Gohan thought privately that if he had to force another smile, he was going to scream . . . his eyes burned from holding back tears, and his lower lip quivered dangerously.  "This was a really great party."

"You're welcome, sweetie," Mom kissed him on the forehead, but Gohan could see that her eyes were blazing with anger . . . he actually smirked, thinking of what Mom would do to Piccolo the next time she saw him.  "You take your new things and go on upstairs, all right, dear?  I'll clean up here."

Gohan nodded mechanically, feeling it was the only thing he could trust himself to do without bursting into floods of tears.  _I'm such a baby,_ he thought bitterly, directing the bitter diatribe at himself with vicious intensity.  _I should've known Mister Piccolo wouldn't want to come.  He was just too chicken to tell me before . . . it would have been nicer if he had told me no right away._

He turned to go, but stopped halfway and strode back to Piccolo's place at the table — empty, the entire night.  Picking up the hat he had so carefully drawn and coloured, Gohan tore it in half fiercely, flinging the pieces onto the tabletop.  He did the same with the nametag, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it to the floor.  He ignored the sad look that spasmed across Mom's face at his actions.

Gathering his gifts in his arms, Gohan placed one foot in front of the other, carrying himself up to his room on autopilot.  He barely heard Mom and Gram'pa wish him goodnight, and didn't register his own reply — he didn't notice anything until he was in his bedroom, his gifts on his desk, himself lying on his bed.

Finally, Gohan allowed the tears to come, and they fell freely, streaming in burning trails down his cheeks.  He had never felt so abandoned in all his life . . . even when Dad had refused to come home so he could train, he at least had an excuse.  Piccolo was just being mean, and there was no way Gohan could forgive him.  Gohan felt horribly alone and deserted, and the feeling made him cry even harder.  He sobbed until his lungs protested, his chest ached, and there were no tears left to fall . . . but still his chest contracted and he wailed into the pillow, stuffing his face into the bedclothes to try to muffle the sound.

"I hate you, Piccolo," Gohan hissed finally, his small body trembling, too exhausted to even crawl under the covers.  "If you were too embarrassed to come, you should've told me . . . everything nice I've said about you, all the times I stuck up for you when nobody else would . . . I take them all back.  And I mean it this time!"

Worn out from weeping for more than an hour, Gohan curled up in a tiny ball and whimpered softly until he finally fell asleep.

******

Groaning, Piccolo sat up slowly, one hand pressed to his forehead — and jerked it away quickly, looking at the sticky, purple blood that now covered his palm.  He grunted and searched for the energy signature of his double . . . when he couldn't sense it, Piccolo realized he had fallen unconscious and his double had returned to his body.

"Wow, that was quite the workout," Piccolo muttered, placing a hand on his neck and cracking it back into place.  He repeated the procedure with his wrists, shoulders, and back, wincing as he felt the ache from several new bruises, and noted that his dark purple gi was stained with violet blood.  "Wonder how long I was unconscious?" judging by the stiffness of his muscles, it had been a good few hours.  It had been almost time to go to Gohan's, Piccolo remembered, when a huge energy blast from his double had knocked him out.

_Gohan's birthday!!!_

  


The battered Namekusejin grimaced as he looked up at the sky; it was pitch-black, speckled with thousands of stars, and Piccolo cursed fluidly and impressively as he dashed over to the waterfall.  Stripping off his tattered gi and incinerating it with a quick ki blast, Piccolo stepped beneath the falls and let the cascading water clean the blood and grime from his body.  That done, he zapped himself up a fresh suit of clothes and took to the air, silently praying that Gohan wouldn't be too upset.

It was definitely a day to mark down on the calendar . . . the former Demon King was panicked about missing a half-breed brat's birthday party.  And it wasn't even a _real_ birthday party . . . it was six months late!  Piccolo shook his head, wondering why he even bothered pretending he was embarrassed anymore.  He had given his life for the kid and risked it countless times — Gohan's happiness meant everything to him, especially in Son's absence, when Piccolo was twice as important to Gohan as he had been before.  He wasn't ashamed to admit how awful he felt for breaking his promise, even unintentionally.

_I'm coming, Gohan, _he thought, hoping the boy's mind would pick up the telepathic message.  _I didn't forget . . . really!_

Piccolo made the flight to Mt. Paozu in record time, but his descent did not go unnoticed.  Unbeknownst to him, ChiChi saw Piccolo touch down from the kitchen, where she had abandoned cleaning up after breaking nearly every single dish she tried to wash.  Standing next to a bucket full of china and ceramic shards, ChiChi saw movement in the front lawn, and her dark eyes narrowed as Piccolo landed in the grass and stood in front of the house, looking uncertain.

"So _now_ he shows up," she gritted between clenched teeth, her hands unconsciously forming into fists.  "_After_ my poor little boy has cried himself to sleep.  Well!  I'm just going to have a _talk_ with 'Mister Piccolo'."

The front door slammed open with a loud bang, and Piccolo jumped; he'd been staring so hard at Gohan's window that he didn't even notice ChiChi glaring at him from the kitchen.  His attention now properly focussed, he saw the raven-haired woman come storming out of the house like a loosed demon.  The normally unshakable Piccolo backed away at the sight of her; ChiChi was surrounded by a blazing red energy aura, and her eyes burned with unmistakable rage.

"_You_!" she shouted, spitting the word at Piccolo like a handful of knives.  Before he could react, the woman's hand came up in a roundhouse slap that actually managed to turn his head, and Piccolo knew there would be a bruise later.  ChiChi's fist met his stomach next, causing Piccolo to double over slightly, but he was able to catch her hands before she could hit him again.

"Calm down!" Piccolo yelled, holding onto ChiChi's wrists firmly, though not too hard — he didn't want to bruise her.  That would just add to the list of reasons for Gohan to be upset with him.  "Where did all that come from?"

"_Where_ did it come from?" ChiChi hissed venomously, struggling to pull away.  With a hard jerk she wrenched her hands free, and Piccolo was so startled that he let her go.  She poked his chest with her finger, hard.  "Where did it _come_ from?  I'll tell you where it _came from_, buddy.  It _came_ from having to sit and wait forty-five minutes for you before we started dinner, with Gohan-chan staring at your empty seat the whole time.  It _came_ from watching my _six-year-old_ sitting at the table with tears running down his face.  It _came_ from watching him skip around the house fixing decorations and making party hats and nametags for someone who didn't have the _decency_ to show up.  It _came_ from listening to him chattering about how great a birthday party it was going to be just because _you_ were going to be there.  It _came_ from having to watch him pretend to be happy when we had to start without you so he wouldn't make _me_ feel bad."

She was shaking with anger now, and her eyes glittered with tears.  They would have fallen, but the force of her energy aura dried them before they could leave her eyes.  "Don't ask me where it 'came from', Piccolo," ChiChi growled, her voice dropping a few octaves as emotion overtook her even further.  "And don't pull the self-righteous act with me, got it?  Because you didn't have to sit there listening to my baby crying behind his hands.  He was so excited that you were coming!  How could you _do_ this to him?"

Not giving him a chance to speak, ChiChi grabbed his hand and forced open his fist, shoving some shreds of crumpled paper into his palm.  "These are the party hat and nametag that Gohan-chan made for you," she snarled.  "It took him an hour to draw the picture for your hat — an _hour_!  Before he went to bed, he ripped them up . . . which is exactly what you did to him.  He _trusted_ you, Piccolo!"

  


Piccolo stared at the crinkled papers, and he carefully pieced together the purple, construction-paper hat.  Something in his throat tightened as he ran his gaze over the crayon drawing of the cliff, the sunset, and himself and Gohan.  Watching the sunset, back in the desert before the arrival of Vegeta and Nappa, had been the first time Piccolo had allowed Gohan to see another side of him.  For the kid to choose that as his drawing . . . guilt stabbed at Piccolo all over again.

"For what it's worth," he said slowly, "I didn't miss the party on purpose."

"That's _not_ worth anything," ChiChi had gained control of herself now, for the power-up was faded to a mere glow and she was managing to keep her voice down.  "I know what happened — something just 'came up', right?"

"No!" Piccolo started to tell ChiChi what happened, but knew it wouldn't make a difference to the woman who had been forced to watch her son cry.  Nothing he could say would make her understand the regret he felt.  "I - I'm sorry," it was the first time he had apologized to anyone but Gohan, and even then, the words sounded hollow.  Piccolo knew ChiChi wouldn't accept it.

She shook her head slowly, an expression of exasperated wonderment on her face.  "You just don't get it, do you.  You . . . you practically broke his heart back there!" ChiChi waved a hand back at the house, the anger on her face sliding away, to be replaced by a kind of wild sadness.  "Gohan-chan's father has abandoned him for who knows how long so he can learn some stupid technique — I try to be there for him, but I'm not enough.  I'm just his mother.  You, though . . . you're everything to him.  He looks up to you even more than he does to Goku-san.  And you betrayed him, whether you meant to or not."

Comprehension dawned on him then, and Piccolo narrowed his eyes at her.  "This isn't just about missing Gohan's birthday party, is it?" he surmised.

"No, it isn't," ChiChi looked mildly relieved that Piccolo was beginning to see, and she rubbed her temples wearily.  "Piccolo . . . you may not think I'm very observant, but I can see when something hurts my Gohan-chan.  When Goku-san said he didn't want to come home right away, that tore Gohan-chan up just the same as if Goku had stabbed him.  He's idolized his father ever since he was born, and to hear him say that he'd rather be on some alien planet instead of with his family . . . that almost killed him.  You're his trainer.  You should know how much Gohan loves his father.

"But you" — ChiChi looked at him with wide eyes, confused and tormented.  "You mean even more to him.  He respects you, he admires you, he looks up to you, he imitates you . . . he hangs on every word you say, and he talks about you all day, nonstop, whenever he's home.  He practically worships the ground you walk on and the sky you fly in.  Gohan _loves_ you, Piccolo!  He clings to you with a fierceness I don't understand.  You're more than his best friend — you're like a father, a brother, a teacher . . . I don't know what, but I know you're all that's keeping Gohan-chan from falling apart.  He's seen so many horrible things that it's a wonder he can still smile anymore."

Her tone softened a little, and she gazed back at the window to Gohan's bedroom.  "But somehow, and I don't understand it, you're the reason Gohan can hold his head up and smile.  You keep him together in a world that keeps on knocking him down.  You're there when even his own father isn't, and that's something I can appreciate," her eyes snapped again, and once more Piccolo had to fend off a blow, this one aimed at his jaw.  "So when you don't show up for his party, something you _promised_ you'd go to, it was like Goku-san left him all over again.  It doesn't matter if it was his birthday party, or a life-or-death battle, or what . . . you broke your promise to him, and that's why I can't just let you walk away."

Her shoulders began shaking, and for the first time Piccolo felt he understood her, if only a little.  She cared for Gohan with the same stubborn intensity that he himself did, and she felt any pain that Gohan went through.  Not knowing what to do, Piccolo reached out and put his hand under her chin, raising her face.  The gesture was awkward since he was only used to gentle acts around Gohan, but he felt he had to do _something_.

"I never wanted to hurt your son," Piccolo knew the words were horribly inadequate, but he never was good at talking, unless he was taunting or threatening an enemy.  "I know how much I mean to him, and I never want to see him cry," he swallowed with difficulty, wishing that the whatever-it-was that had lodged in his throat would dissolve.  "I don't want to just walk away."

  


ChiChi looked him in the eye then, and her face relaxed ever-so-slightly.  "Then make it right," she ordered gently, taking his arm and shoving him in the direction of the front door.  "Talk to him."

Piccolo just nodded, and he moved into the house with a deliberate slowness.  He had no idea what to say . . . it didn't matter that he hadn't _meant_ to miss Gohan's party — warrior or no, the child was only six years old, and there were some things the boy still didn't fully understand.  With Gohan, trust was either kept, or broken; there was no middle ground.

He could hear the child's ragged breathing as he mounted the stairs, and Piccolo winced — Gohan only sounded like that after he had been sobbing for a long time.  He shook his head, and he couldn't help thinking that children were trouble . . . they took things far too seriously, and they tugged on the heartstrings until they were practically broken . . . but when they smiled, they made it all worthwhile.

_I sound pathetic_, Piccolo snorted, _Darn kid's turned me into a bleeding heart sentimentalist._

He paused with his hand on the doorknob, feeling nervous and completely at a loss of what to do, before pushing open the door and stepping into the darkened room.  "Gohan?" Piccolo called, but he got no response, and he turned on the lamp on the bedside table.

Gohan lay on top of the blankets, his knees pulled up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, his face scrunched into a mask of sadness and anger.  The tears had long dried, but the boy's cheeks were streaked with lines of salt.  He was dressed in a dark blue suit, which was now badly wrinkled, though the sleeves and pant legs still showed evidence of once-sharp creases, indicating that it had once been proudly ironed.  The cuffs of the sleeves were stained from Gohan wiping his eyes and nose repeatedly.   Swallowing hard, Piccolo tousled Gohan's hair lightly and shook his shoulder.  "Hey, kid . . . wake up, will you?"

Gohan's eyes cracked open, and when his gaze focussed on Piccolo, the boy's face lit up in a brilliant smile . . . but within a few seconds, he remembered the events of the evening and began to scowl.  "Why are you here _now_, Piccolo?" he demanded, curling in upon himself and glaring.

The absence of the honorific wasn't lost on Piccolo, and the Namekusejin repressed a grimace.  "Can I sit down?"

"I don't care what you do," Gohan declared dully, rolling away and facing the wall.  When Piccolo took a seat on the bed, Gohan grabbed the edge of the blanket and pulled the covers up over his head.  "What do you want, anyway?  The party's over."

"I know, kid.  I'm sorry," Piccolo glanced around the room as if something in it would be tell him what to say, and his gaze fell upon the boy's open closet.  Hanging in the front was the deep purple gi that Piccolo had given him before the fight with the Saiyajin . . . and on the desk was a mess of crayons, scissors, tape, and construction paper.  Piccolo's throat closed up again.  "I didn't mean to miss it.  I was sparring and got knocked out by a blast for a few hours.  I came as soon as I woke up."

Gohan turned over to look at him, and his eyes were filled with so much hurt and betrayal that Piccolo's heart lurched in his chest.  "Training, huh?" the boy's mouth tightened, and his eyes filled with tears once more.  "That's why you didn't come to my birthday party?" his lip trembled and he pulled the covers over himself again, but not before yelling, "You sound like Daddy!"

For once, Piccolo didn't hear the sobs that tore themselves loose from Gohan's shaking body, and he didn't notice how Gohan tried to curl up into the smallest ball possible.  All that registered was the boy's last, accusatory statement, issued with more vindictiveness than Piccolo would have thought Gohan possessed.

_You sound like Daddy_!

  


All those months he had spent, cursing Son for leaving for training — even though he knew it hadn't been the Saiyajin's fault, really, that circumstances beyond his control had sent him to whatever planet he was now on — all the inward thoughts of how he would be a better father to Gohan . . . all trashed by one simple statement.  It was as though everything Piccolo had told himself about his friendship with Gohan had been suddenly flung into a new light.  It was amazing, the clarity that children brought to things.

"Gohan, I . . ." Piccolo began, resting a hand on what he guessed was Gohan's shoulder, hidden as it was beneath the sheets, but he never got the chance to finish his sentence.  Gohan sat up suddenly, throwing off Piccolo's hand, and once again his stare burned through his mentor like laser beams.

"You go and act all mad at Daddy for leaving," Gohan sniffled, running his sleeve under his nose, "And then you go and do exactly what you were mad at him for doing!  That's not fair, Piccolo.  There's a word for that, and maybe I'll remember what it is when I'm not so angry at you."

"Hypocrite," Piccolo murmured.

Gohan nodded, crossing his arms.  Somehow, in the rumpled blue suit, with his hair messy and tears falling from his angry eyes, Gohan appeared smaller and even more vulnerable.  "That's it.  You know, Mom said you probably wouldn't come, and I defended you all day, lots of times.  I don't even know how many times I told her that you would come, that you're my friend, that you'd do anything I asked you to."

Piccolo wasn't sure why he sat there and let a six-year-old lambast him for something that hadn't been his fault, but he knew it would do no good to try to justify himself.  It would only get Gohan even madder, for the boy would see any attempt at explanation to be a pathetic excuse.  So, for the first time in years, Piccolo was speechless.

"Do you know how hard it was, seeing Mom sitting there, waiting for you, and knowing the whole time that she was thinking 'I told you so'?"  Gohan's words were becoming less and less intelligible as he began blubbering, but he obviously didn't care.  He didn't even bother wiping his face anymore.  "She never said it, but I could tell from the look on her face.  And I . . . I was dumb enough to think that she was wrong."

Gohan shook his head, and he drew his knees up to his chest again.  "I trusted you, Piccolo.  You said to me that you'd never leave me alone like Daddy did — and even when you didn't _say_ it, I could hear you _think_ it.  And now, you - you did the same stuff Daddy does!  You went off training and forgot all about it, and you'll just say that you 'couldn't help it' just like Daddy always says.

"You probably think I'm a baby, crying over a silly birthday party, but it's not just that," Gohan frowned, knuckling his eyes.  "It's ... it's just that every time I trust somebody, I get shoved in the closet like I'm a - a baseball glove or something.  Something that can be played with and then put away until you want to play with it again," he choked on his words, coughing for a few seconds before finally being able to continue.  "I understand why Daddy does it — it's 'cause he's saved the world so many times that he forgets about actual people.  He's not very smart that way, and he doesn't know that he hurts Mommy when he goes away."

Gohan pressed his fists to his eyes, looking as though he wanted to disappear.  "But you, Piccolo . . . you said this would never happen, but it did!  And now that it's happened this time, you'll do it again and again.  It won't be your fault and you'll always be really really sorry, but it's gonna' happen anyway.  It always does."

Finally, Gohan's tormented words broke through Piccolo's shock, and the Namekusejin shook himself.  "Gohan!" he snapped, and the boy jumped.  "Stop this!  I said I was sorry, and I won't let you down again.  Now stop crying!" Gohan stared at him in disbelief and anger, and Piccolo realized that his customary method of dealing with emotion — coarseness and harsh reprimands — wouldn't work this time.  Though part of him told him to let the kid cry it out, that things would be back to normal in a matter of days, the larger part disagreed.  Gohan was a very sensitive child, and he didn't deserve to be taken advantage of just because Piccolo had difficulty handling sentiment.

  


"Gohan," Piccolo crossed his legs, pulling himself further up onto the bed, and he touched Gohan's shoulder.  The boy flinched, but didn't pull away, and this was a good sign . . . Piccolo knew this meant that the child was aching to be told that he was mistaken.  He'd always been like that — almost any time he got fired up about something, all Gohan was really doing was desperately wishing to be reassured that he was loved.   "All I can say is that you're wrong.  You've changed me, and you've done more for me than anyone else possibly could.  I know I wasn't here tonight, but this was just _one night_, and that will never happen again."

He could see Gohan begin to relax, and Piccolo picked the boy up and drew him into his lap — instead of resisting, Gohan sat motionless.  He didn't lean into the embrace like he usually did, but he didn't reject it, either.  "I can't force you to believe me, Gohan — the only thing I can do is ask you to trust me.  You've entrusted me with your life and I haven't let you down, so just believe that I won't hurt you again, either."

Piccolo waited for what felt like several eternities, until finally, he felt a movement; Gohan's head, nodding against his chest.  Swallowing a wave of relief so intense it threatened to flood him, Piccolo encircled the boy's small form in his arms and hugged him — it was one of the first embraces that Piccolo had ever initiated on his own.

"I'm sorry I yelled," Gohan whispered hoarsely, "But . . . Daddy . . . he's made us all feel so sad . . . and so when I thought you were gonna' do the same thing, I - I just snapped . . . I'm so sorry, Mister Piccolo.  I don't really hate you!"

"I know, kid," Piccolo reassured him, resting his chin on the top of Gohan's head, feeling the child's scruffy hair tickling his nose.  "I know.  Your mother gave me a good tongue-lashing, too."

Gohan giggled a little.  "Really?"

"Yeah.  She's got quite the temper, that woman . . . and she loves you a lot, Gohan.  And don't ever tell her I said this, but I respect her for that.  You have an amazing mother, kid," Piccolo shook his head.  "And even if he's not here right now, you've got an amazing father, too."

"And an amazing best friend," Gohan added softly, tilting his head back so he could look at Piccolo.  The boy's eyes shone, both from unshed tears and from relief, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Piccolo's thick waist.  "I love you, Mister Piccolo," the boy sniffed, pressing his face into the fabric of Piccolo's gi.  "You mean everything to me.  I just got mad 'cause I was scared of losing you."

Piccolo was stunned by the feeling behind Gohan's words, and instantly he opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment about "sissies" and "mushy stuff" — but something stopped him.  Under normal circumstances, Piccolo's rough manner would roll off Gohan like water off a duck's back, but something told him it would be different this time.  Piccolo didn't want to risk hurting his friend again so soon.

Instead, he closed his eyes and held Gohan even closer.  "Back at you, brat," he replied gruffly.

He heard Gohan gasp, then the boy's arms tightened around his waist and the child began crying all over again, though this time the tears were joyful, not bitter.

Piccolo didn't know how long they sat there, but after some time, Gohan let out a long yawn and snuggled up to Piccolo like a sleepy cat.  "Bedtime, kid," Piccolo lifted him off his lap and set Gohan down on the bed, but a hand on his wrist stopped him before he could rise.

"Stay," Gohan requested, looking at Piccolo with his wide, black eyes hopeful.  "I won't ever make you do it again, but just stay once.  Please, sir?"

When they were in the desert or in the forest, Piccolo had no problem with letting Gohan sleep with him — but at the boy's house, things were different.  No one could see him out in the wilderness . . . here, the boy's mother could walk in at any time, and that put Piccolo in a vulnerable position.  He was about to refuse when a little voice inside his head muttered, _Who cares?_

  


"Shove over," he grunted, pretending not to see the wide grin that lit up Gohan's face, erasing any trace of the emotional torment that had ravaged him earlier.  Gohan scooted to the far side of the bed, leaving Piccolo room to crawl in beside him, and the Namekusejin shook his head before stretching out on the small bed, pulling the blankets up over him.  Gohan immediately cuddled up close at his side, his head resting on Piccolo's shoulder, and after a moment's hesitation, Piccolo stretched out his arm and curled it protectively around Gohan.

"Now sleep," he commanded, turning off the light with his free hand, knowing he would be _very_ sore in the morning.  "And if you start kicking, I'll boot you right off the bed.  Don't you think I won't!"

Gohan just laughed, and he patted Piccolo's chest with one hand in a jokingly patronizing manner.  "Yes, sir."

It didn't take long for Gohan's breathing to even out, indicating that he had fallen asleep, and Piccolo shifted into a more comfortable position, with Gohan nestled in the crook of his arm.  He was sleeping peacefully, and Piccolo had to admit that he was glad the boy trusted him again.  He had come to take the child's love and affection for granted — when he had been threatened with the possibility of losing it, the prospect scared Piccolo like nothing else could.

"Stupid kid," he muttered, carefully keeping his voice low, "I don't understand the power you have over me, but . . . I kind of like it."

Piccolo was about to doze off when he heard the door creak, and he opened his eyes a slit.  ChiChi entered the room, dressed in a housecoat, her hair let out of its severe bun for the night, and when she saw the two of them, her mouth curved up into a relieved smile.  

"I'm so happy you're okay, Gohan-chan," she whispered, coming to sit on the edge of the bed.  Through half-lidded eyes, Piccolo watched as she leaned over him and ruffled Gohan's hair, then planted a light kiss on her son's forehead.  "Piccolo really does care for you, doesn't he . . ."

"As for you," ChiChi sighed, and Piccolo realized she thought he was asleep when she traced a finger across his forehead.  "I still haven't quite forgiven you for taking Gohan-chan away from me, but . . . you can't be that bad if my baby loves you so much.  I never thought I'd say this, but thank you."

She might have kissed him, too, had Piccolo not spoken up just then.  "I'm awake," he warned her, though he didn't open his eyes.  "And no, I won't tell anybody what you said."

ChiChi jumped, looking extremely embarrassed, and Piccolo's mouth quirked against his will.  Aside from their fierce love of Gohan, he and ChiChi apparently held something else in common; a shared discomfort of expressing emotion.  "I'm sorry," she apologized hastily.  "I'm just glad that you've made up.  You may not believe me, but I don't like it when you two are at odds.  It seems to hurt both of you so badly."

"Don't worry about it," Piccolo dismissed everything with a wave of his hand.

"You really love my son, don't you," ChiChi remarked softly, smiling a little, and she held up a hand before Piccolo could speak.  "Oh, don't worry, I won't force you to say it.  I know."

"I'm not going to replace Son," Piccolo cautioned her, seeing where this was going.  These humans and their obsession with transferring affections . . .  "I won't allow myself to be a substitute father who can be tossed aside whenever the real one comes home.  Just so you know."

She nodded, and she caressed Gohan's cheek lightly.  "I wouldn't ask that of you.  But you're doing a pretty good job anyway, from what I can see."

Her touch woke Gohan, who stretched out his arms and yawned.  He smiled when he saw his mother.  "Mummy," he murmured sleepily, and he grabbed her hand, tugging at her arm.  "Come sleep with me."

Piccolo glanced sharply at him, and he saw ChiChi jump in his peripheral vision.  "Gohan-chan, I don't think Piccolo would —" ChiChi began, but Gohan waved her off drowsily.

  


"Mister Piccolo doesn't care.  I told you he'd look after you if I asked him, right?" Gohan looked at Piccolo, a tired smile creasing his face.  "Can Mommy sleep with us?"

"Ach, whatever," Piccolo shifted to the edge of the bed, leaving room next to the wall.  "Why don't you bring that stupid, purple dragon of yours, too?  Invite Kuririn and his girlfriend, while you're at it."

Gohan giggled, and he pulled on ChiChi's hand again.  "Please, Mom?"

ChiChi's eyes darted around frantically, and even in the dim light Piccolo could tell she was blushing.  "Um . . ."

"I'm Namekusejin," Piccolo interjected, not really caring one way or another whether or not ChiChi slept with them, but wanting the decision to be made quickly.  He was starting to get tired.  "In case you didn't know, that means I'm asexual," he cocked a brow ridge, noting the relief that crossed ChiChi's face before she tried, unsuccessfully, to hide it.  "And you're not that attractive, anyway, even if I wasn't."

ChiChi smirked a little, realizing he was just trying to lighten the mood, and she crawled into bed on the other side of Gohan, sliding under the blankets and curling up next to her son.  "Good night, sweetheart, and happy birthday," she told him, kissing him on the cheek, then rolled her eyes at Piccolo.  "And I guess a good night to you, too, Mister Charming."

Piccolo just snorted and closed his eyes, letting the sounds of the pair's soft breathing lull him into a peaceful half-sleep.  He'd never admit it, of course, but this was kind of relaxing . . . he'd never slept lying down before.  He'd never actually _slept_, period, preferring meditation as his form of rest.  Sleeping was something he deemed unnecessary for a true warrior, since it wasted so much time and didn't train the mind as meditation did.

Of course, Gohan was changing his opinions on a lot of things, and this might be another — though he would ever do _this_ again.  It was nice, yes, but far too personal for Piccolo's liking.  He glanced over at Gohan, whose fists were tucked beneath his chin like an infant, his mouth slightly open as he snored softly.  Piccolo's expression softened, though no one was witness to it, and with his free hand he rumpled the boy's untidy hair.

_I'm sorry I caused you so much pain today,_ Piccolo thought, _It won't happen again.  I have a duty to protect you, and that includes protecting you from me, too._

Gohan's lips curved up in a tiny smile and he snuggled closer, and Piccolo realized the boy had heard him in his dreams.  He looked at ChiChi, who lay with her cheek resting on her hand, her dark bangs obscuring her eyes.  Piccolo reached across Gohan and lifted ChiChi's hair off her forehead, studying her in the darkness, and he blinked suddenly, noticing how much she resembled Gohan when the two of them were asleep.  She and her son had similar facial features, now that Piccolo thought about it, and the same brilliant smile.

_Hmph_, he snorted inwardly.  _I guess the kid's got more of his mother in him than I thought.  Maybe she didn't do that bad a job raising him . . ._

ChiChi stirred in her sleep, shifting restlessly, and Piccolo wondered if his thoughts had reached her, too.  It was quite possible . . . the woman frowned and muttered something inaudible, then she stretched out one arm.  Piccolo's eyes widened as her hand came to rest on his chest, above his heart.  He would have shoved her arm off him, but he didn't want to risk waking Gohan.

_What the heck . . . nobody's watching._

With a sigh, Piccolo just closed his eyes again and let ChiChi's arm stay where it was.  It was . . . comforting . . . somehow, to share such a quiet moment with Gohan and his mother — it gave Piccolo the illusion that, even for one night, he was part of a family.  Not for the first time, he wondered at Son's sanity, if the man could leave behind people who cared for him so much.

  


_If they were mine, I'd never leave them,_ Piccolo's silent vow startled him, for he actually meant it — and not just to Gohan, either.  By becoming Gohan's guardian in Son's absence, Piccolo's responsibility was automatically extended to ChiChi, as well.  She was a strong woman, but like her son, she needed someone to take care of her.

What was it Gohan had said?  _"I told you he'd look after you if I asked him, right?"_  Piccolo smiled, his first real smile in a long time, for the boy was more right than he knew.  Whether or not he'd intended to, by making that statement, Gohan had all but demanded that Piccolo look after him and his mother.

Any thoughts of previous arguments slipped away, and for once, Piccolo was able to care for someone without worrying about what others would think, or whether or not his obligations made him weak.  He glanced over at Gohan and ChiChi again, and a strange sense of pride filled him — he guessed it was similar to what Son must feel, if he ever actually thought about how lucky he was.  

Even if they didn't know it, Piccolo vowed to take care of the mother and son, not only in the absence of Son Goku, but when he was there, as well.  Even if he never told them of the role he placed upon himself, Piccolo would follow it until he gave up his last, dying breath.  Gohan was his best friend, and the son he would never have . . . and ChiChi, for all her screaming and making Gohan study, did everything she could to try to make "her baby" happy.

It was like he had a family of his very own — and though he knew others would laugh if they knew, Piccolo didn't care.  His fangs bared in a snarl, as he offered a silent promise to the stars.  Son might have the galaxy to defend, but the boy sleeping next to him — and like it or not, the boy's mother, as well — were all Piccolo could ever hope for, and more.  He wouldn't fail in protecting them — not only from physical dangers, but from the emotional pain that came from Son's well-meaning thoughtlessness.

And he would never betray them.

Never.

******

This story is one that truly took on "a life of its own" -- and I'm not kidding! I had intended this to be a lighthearted fic with a little bit of sadness, easily remedied ... but it ended up being a rather complicated (and definitely unexpected) foray into Gohan's psyche, and a bit into ChiChi's, as well. 

I had thought Gohan would be upset, naturally, but when Piccolo-sama didn't show up for the party, ChiChi and Gohan's reactions literally wrote themselves. That's a bad habit of mine; I sit back, put my hands on the keyboard (or pen to the paper, as the case may be), and let the characters react naturally. I don't have to sit there, frustrated, thinking, "Now how would so-and-so react to this?" I just let them do the work. I can't really explain it. Maybe it's cheating, but .... *shrugs* ... works so far. 

So. I have a rather long explanation justifying what I wrote - most of it is covered in the story, but I go a bit more in-depth. If you're interested, contact me! 


End file.
